


All To Myself

by TheNarator



Series: Siren of the Sky [2]
Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Obsession, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4820594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNarator/pseuds/TheNarator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's very little in the world Jeremy Rankin truly cares for. When someone enters his heart, he tends to get a little . . . focused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All To Myself

**Author's Note:**

> for annicron

Rankin knows who Captain William Laurence is long before he ever sets eyes on the man. He might not be particularly well-liked around the Corp, but he doesn't need a gossip circle to know about the sea Captain who harnessed an Imperial; it's the only thing anyone is talking about and no one feels the need to keep their thoughts on the matter to themselves. It's almost impossible not to know.

He's not particularly interested in the news:  _he_  would never get a chance at the beast, his own useless Winchester makes sure of that, and there's nothing to be gained from listening to every ill-mannered lout in the Corp voice the same stupid opinion. There was no point dwelling on it, so he turned his attention to other things.

He only dimly registers the news that Laurence will be coming to Loch Lagan, as wrapped up as he is in his own affairs, but all that means is that seeing him for the first time, in the dining room and clearly trying to establish a rapport with the Captain of the newly hatched Regal Copper, strikes Rankin all the more for catching him unawares. He'd known that Laurence was well bred, his father a Lord with a considerable estate, but his patrician features are so remarkable amidst the plain faces of the common aviators that Rankin finds himself staring openly from across the room. He's solidly built, tall and broad-shouldered, and coupled as it is with his perfectly tailored coat and expertly tied neckcloth it gives him an air of unparalleled authority. His manners are beautifully formal, tightly controlled even in the face of the Corp's more relaxed atmosphere, and he stands out a like a beacon of civilized society among vagabonds and ruffians.

Rankin wants to know him. Rankin  _needs_  to know him.

It's been a while since he's even made an attempt at conversation with the other aviators, but he insinuates himself at the table easily using the excuse that he and Laurence don't know each other. Laurence is a wonderful conversation partner, and it's easy for Rankin to monopolize his attention, but it's obvious he's out of his element and Rankin can't help but feel oddly protective of him. He makes a thinly veiled disparaging comment about the conduct of his fellows to put the man at ease, show him that his superior manners are not some flaw he must correct, and is immensely pleased when Laurence echoes the sentiment with more tact.

When Harcourt comes to the table Rankin calls her by her first name, as a means of conveying that she is a woman without making Laurence look a fool for not knowing women serve in the Corp; by his look of surprise and mild horror Rankin can see he guessed correctly in assuming Laurence's ignorance, and Rankin does his best to cover his companion's shock with an overly formal introduction. Laurence flounders anyway, poor dear, but Rankin takes the explanation upon himself once more, and if he is a little snide to Harcourt for how rudely she corrects Laurence's mistake, he will not lose sleep over it.

He's looking forward to having Laurence alone, away from the cold eyes of the other Captains, when he invites the man to the officer's club with him, and it nearly wounds him to be refused. It seems that the others have  _gotten_ to him, and he thinks that he must dote on his dragon like a flighty mistress. The very idea makes something ugly rise in Rankin's chest, but he masks it with fond amusement, trying to make light of Laurence's obvious fear of neglecting his duty.

"I thank you kindly for your concern," Laurence says, smiling an easy, gentle smile.

_Let me help you_ , Rankin thinks, but swallows the words. Eventually, he attains Laurence's promise to join him later.

It quickly becomes clear that no one has told Laurence anything, or even tried. He knows precious little about dragons and precious little has been done for him to rectify the situation. As they play chess Rankin fills in the gaps in his knowledge, explaining patiently what Laurence doesn't know and correcting the misinformation doubtlessly given to him by other, less charitable aviators. It's rather endearing, the way he frets, and Rankin does his best to soothe those fears.

When he proposes the trip to Edinburgh the look of surprised pleasure on Laurence's face is more than enough reward, even without the promise of such an intimate flight before him. Over the next week they make a habit of meeting like this, in the officer's club in the late evening, and Rankin delights in the almost childish excitement with which Laurence contemplates the trip. This mostly takes the form of diligent planning as he designs the gift he plans to purchase for his dragon, and Rankin hasn't the heart to tell him he needn't go to such lengths. Such a gift as this will keep the beast happy for a long time, and likely keep it quiet as Laurence settles his nerves and stops spending all his time fussing over it.

He and Laurence sit together at dinner, but Rankin's sleeping habits rarely have him up in time to eat breakfast together. As the day of their outing draws nearer however Rankin finds sleep more difficult for the anticipation, and one morning finds himself awake for the morning meal. Once he enters the dining room though, he finds Laurence already engaged in conversation with Harcourt.

Harcourt is smiling.

Laurence's eyes are twinkling.

This will not do.

A hot, bitter feeling in his chest has him at Laurence's side in an instant, and his greeting is very nearly tactless in its blatant exclusion of Harcourt. She reacts to the dismissal just as he'd hoped, by storming off in a fit of temper, and he watches her flee with an almost mean satisfaction. Laurence seems a little less pleased to see her go, and only now can Rankin identify the bitter emotion as jealousy. He hates the idea of Laurence becoming intimate with her, or with anyone besides himself, and he's never felt more covetous of the man's attention.

_You can't have him,_  he thinks savagely at Harcourt's retreating back. _I won't let you._

In the days leading up to their flight Rankin finds himself growing more and more absurdly greedy for intimacy with Laurence. Their acquaintance has grown quickly into friendship, and suddenly he is watching Laurence's every move for signs of the same affection that he feels. Laurence is still trying to befriend the other Captains in his formation -- Rankin can understand it, it is only a matter of survival to be on good terms with the people he is to serve alongside -- but every time Laurence so much as looks at one of them he feels that hot spike of jealousy once more. Perversely the other side of it makes him just as angry; every time one of the other aviators snubs Laurence Rankin wants to hit them. He doesn't want them to  _have_ Laurence, but he wants them to  _want_ Laurence.

To want Laurence like he does.

The day of the trip to Edinburgh though, it all goes dreadfully wrong. 

From the moment they meet in the courtyard Laurence is cold to him, cold as Rankin has never seen him. He will not meet Rankin's eye and busies himself seeing to Temeraire and talking to the harness men up to the moment they are ready to depart, going so far as to imply he would stay behind if the dragon wished it. He ignores all Rankin's attempts to make conversation during the flight, turning what should have a pleasant journey into an exercise in frustration as he casts around for what could have put Laurence in this mood, and when they reach Edenburgh Laurence pays more attention to Levitas than to Rankin.

"I see you are a little tender-hearted towards them," Rankin comments, more to reassure himself than anything. He falls back on trying to give Laurence advice, to comfort his nervous fretting, but they nearly end up arguing and Rankin is forced to drop the subject.

_No, no, no,_  he thinks,  _what did I do wrong?_

It only gets worse from there. Their friendship, their very acquaintance, grinds to a halt: suddenly Laurence has no time to join him in the officer's club, no words for him anywhere else, and any interactions between them are kept as short and perfunctory as Laurence can make them. Rankin tries to convince himself it is a coincidence; Temeraire's training has begun in earnest, now that the assessments of his flying capabilities are complete, and Laurence must surely have no time or energy for anyone. These thoughts do not content him.

They content him even less when he sees Laurence having dinner with the other Captains of his formation one evening, making time for them as he refuses to make time for Rankin.  _It is a matter of survival_ , he tells himself as he eats alone. It is all very well and good for a courier to isolate himself, to stand alone with his pride, but Laurence's beast is to be part of a formation and he cannot afford to be making enemies of his fellows. This of course comes with the horrible thought that Rankin is not well liked among the aviators, and associating with him might be dangerous to Laurence's reputation. It's equal parts comforting and devastating: Laurence does not voluntarily reject his company, but that does not mean that their intimacy will resume.

His temper rises steadily as days, then weeks go by, still with no break in the stalemate. If he could just have something, have  _anything_ , so much as a single  _word_  of explanation from Laurence, he might have been able to maintain his composure; instead he grows more and more snappish, taking his frustration out on the servants and anyone else who gets in his way. Levitas seems to be getting somehow  _less_  useful, and it infuriates him to be stuck with such a worthless dragon. The final straw comes one evening when he goes to the courtyard to find Levitas simply  _gone_ , only to see him returning a few minutes later with a harness man and a handful of cadets on his back.

"What do you mean by flying off like this?" he demands, deriving no satisfaction from the beast's cowering as he usually would; it only makes him more angrier now. He lectures the dragon harshly, snapping at the cadets in their turn, until a familiar voice interrupts him.

"Levitas was kind enough to bear them to oblige me, Captain Rankin," says Laurence, and the sharpness in his tone cuts deep. There is real disdain, real dislike, in his cold eyes as he gives a curt explanation, and Rankin's stomach turns. He responds on instinct, matches coldness with coldness as he draws his pain around himself like a cloak, like a shield. As though it will shield him from this.

This is no mere act to placate the other aviators. This is no mere disagreement brought on by frustration and exhaustion. This is not even boredom, a fear which Rankin had refused to let himself consider. Laurence, his friend, his  _only_  friend, has somehow grown to hate him.

Laurence hates him.

Just like all the others.

With that thought in his head Rankin tries to make himself hate Laurence. Tries to tell himself that Laurence is just like the others, like the self-righteous mollycoddlers and plebeian fools that populate the Corp, no more worth Rankin's time or energy than any of them. Tries to tell himself that he doesn't care, that he  _never_  cared, that Laurence's betrayal doesn't hurt, just like constant snubs and cold looks from the rest of them don't hurt. Laurence meant nothing to him, their friendship meant nothing, and this betrayal means less than nothing.

It isn't true.

Laurence had meant something. Laurence had meant  _everything._  Laurence was the only one he had ever wanted. Nothing had ever meant as much as Laurence's friendship, nothing had ever felt as good as his company, and Rankin would give anything to have it back. To have  _him_  back. His betrayal hurts, and his coldness burns, and it all cuts so much deeper because Laurence is  _different_  from the others. He's civilized, and well-mannered, and beautiful, and Rankin wants to clutch at him until he stops this nonsense and comes back. He wants to grab and hold and touch, and there's something dreadfully untoward in his desire that frightens him, and he wishes all the more that Laurence were here with him.

He hates himself for feelings this way. He hates Laurence for making him feel this way.

Fortunately there is work to throw himself into. The damned Corsican has something planned that no one can work out, so all the lightweights and couriers are re-purposed as scouts. He spends weeks flying the French border, looking for some way to slip past its defenses, and the focus this requires takes his mind off things. He's up early every morning and usually so tired by day's end that he falls into bed, so there's little time to dwell on Captain Laurence and the memory of his strong hands, the way his long, thick fingers caressed the chess piece as he moved them. His brain  _makes_  the time though, and more than once he finds himself contemplating strange things, like how those fingers might feel caressing his wrist, or his cheek, or even his lips. They'd be calloused, he thinks, but not rough. Laurence would be gentle. Even now, he thinks Laurence would be gentle.

It's almost a surprise when he finds a way past the border; he has no strategy in mind, simply happens upon a weak point in their defenses. What he finds there makes his blood run cold, and he makes a quick sketch while he can before tearing off back toward the channel as fast as possible. He still gets caught, unfortunately, and has to fight his way out, but there's nothing more than a few lightweights in a position to stop him and the only bigger dragon anywhere near is a Fleur de Nuit sleeping in preparation for its night patrol. He breaths easier once he's out over open water, the sketch he made tucked safely inside his coat.

_Maybe this will make him look at me._

He's sitting in Admiral Lenton's office, preening smugly before his captive audience of a dozen or so other Captains, when Laurence enters. His eyes find Rankin immediately, and Rankin's heart jumps when he meets the other man's gaze. He knows he's presenting a rather terrible picture, all over blood and grimacing from the pain in his leg, but he thinks he sees a flicker of sympathy in Laurence's eyes. Maybe he imagines it, but it warms him just the same.

Laurence pays him no further attention though, focused only on the sketches; he asks Lenton about the scale, and though it's Rankin who answers him he does not look up. Then preparations for battle must begin and Laurence goes to see to his crew, leaving Rankin to change his clothes and join Lenton and a couple of scout Captains in the officer's club. They may not like him, but he knows perfectly well he has his uses; they are discussing strategy while Rankin sips wine to put color back in his cheeks when Laurence enters.

He isn't sure what he expects when Laurence comes to stand beside him, but it sends a little thrill through him to have Laurence so close once more. "If you can walk, get on your feet; otherwise I will carry you," Laurence growls, and that nearly has him shivering, the roughness in his voice rumbling down Rankin's spine. He tries to keep his composure, his still-aching heart bringing a snide comment easily to his lips, but Laurence merely seizes his chair and tips him out of it onto the floor.

It's a startling display of strength, Rankin notices with detachment, but to suddenly find himself on the floor at Laurence's feet startles him more. His body reacts involuntarily, his stomach clenching with anything but nausea, and an unfamiliar sensation of  _want_  spreading quickly through him. The feeling only intensifies when Laurence takes hold of his coat, takes hold of him in the same way Rankin had wanted to clutch at Laurence, and hauls him to his feet. He gasps in startled want and barely registers what Laurence tells the others, something about Levitas he thinks, and then he has to struggle to stay upright as Laurence drags him from the room.

For one dazed moment he thinks wildly of what Laurence might be about to do, and allows himself to consider what he  _wants_  Laurence to do. What he wants is for Laurence to bear him away from the club to some dark corner, somewhere they won't be observed. Laurence would push him up against a wall and hold him there, pinning him with those arms made thick and strong by years at sea. He would gaze fiercely into Rankin's eyes for a moment, anger written on every line of his face, but then he would let out a pained little sigh and bury his face in Rankin's neck.

They would both stand there a minute, breathing hard, pressed tightly together. Then Laurence would lift his head and touch his forehead to Rankin's.

_Don't scare me like that,_  he'd whisper, and the words would land against Rankin's mouth.

_Were you frightened?_  Rankin would ask, his voice soft.

_Of course,_  Laurence would insist,  _every moment I knew you were flying the border_. Then he would brush his fingers over the wound in Rankin's thigh; Rankin would tense, but the pleasure of Laurence's touch would soon erase the pain.

_How did this happen?_  he would ask, sounding broken.

_I was careless,_  Rankin would confess.  _My mind wasn't on my work._

_Where was it?_ Laurence would demand.

_With you,_ Rankin would reply.  _Always with you._

Maybe more than that would transpire in that dark corner. Maybe there would be reverent whispers and gentle caresses and just the slightest hint of tears. Maybe there would be terms of endearment, like Laurence uses with his dragon, and murmured explanations and forgiveness and promises. Maybe there would be a soft touch of lips, the slightest hint at what could be wanted but never possessed.

He doesn't get to find out. In the end there is no corner, and instead Rankin finds himself dragged outside. Laurence's grip is strong and his frame is solid and he is utterly inescapable; no matter how Rankin tries to squirm away Laurence holds him fast, and something in that gives him a little thrill as well, to be so helpless before this man.

Eventually they come to just outside the clearing where Levitas, more badly injured than his Captain, is still stubbornly clinging to life despite his fatal injuries. Here Laurence stops and turns Rankin to face him, and Rankin is keenly aware that if Laurence wanted to hold him still like this it would not be difficult.

"You will be generous to him, do you understand me?" Laurence's voice is so rough as to almost make the words incomprehensible beneath the way they make Rankin shiver. "You will give him every word of praise he has earned from you and never received; you will tell him he has been brave, and loyal, and a better partner than you have deserved."

This . . . is about Levitas. Rankin stares at Laurence uncomprehendingly. All of this, this violence, this  _passion_ , for a dragon? He cannot . . . it cannot be just . . .

When he says nothing Laurence shakes him impatiently, and it's almost enough to make his knees give out the way that Laurence can so easily manhandle him. "By God, you will do all this and more, and hope that it is enough to satisfy me."

At the word 'satisfy' it feels like his legs turn to water, but it doesn't matter; Laurence is dragging him bodily into the clearing and throwing him to the ground beside Levitas. Being forced to his knees in this way makes his trousers inexplicably tight, even as they are soaked through with dragon blood, and he can do little more than parrot "You have been very brave" before the beast dies.

"Go," Laurence orders, voice full of disgust. "We who valued him will make the arrangements, not you."

Rankin flees. He flees back to his room, where he takes off his bloodstained trousers and desperately, shamefully, sobbing gently all the while, takes his own pleasure by his own hand.

They stop Bonaparte coming across the channel, obviously. Laurence is hailed as a hero. Temeraire has some kind of special ability, something to do with his roar; Rankin wasn't paying very close attention. Laurence is invited to a ridiculous number of parties in the wake of the victory, none of which Rankin is invited to despite the part he played. He could get into them, of course, not for nothing is he the son of an Earl, but he has no desire to see Laurence again.

He has  _every_ desire to see Laurence again.

In the wake of Levitas' death he finds himself in an awkward position: he is a Captain, and a Captain he will remain due to his heroics before the Battle of Dover, but he has no beast with which to fly. Another Winchester was hatching, he finds out later, but Laurence persuaded the Admiral to place Hollin, his g _round crew master_ , ahead of Rankin, and of course the dumb beast chose the first idiot she saw. He wants to be angry about it, he  _is_ angry, but every time he tries to focus on that anger all he can think of is Laurence's iron grip, his eyes full of fire, his voice low with fury, and he ends up kneeling on the floor as he strokes himself to completion. He's furious at himself afterwards, but he doesn't stop.

Eventually Laurence is called away to China on some political errand, and Rankin has nothing left but idle days to dwell on the man. While the Admirals and the politicians argue half-heartedly over what to do with him he finds ways to keep himself busy, none of which are very fulfilling. He always keeps an ear open for news of Laurence, where he is or what he's doing, but there's precious little information to be had and those that have it are reluctant to share. Before his departure Laurence had apparently taken up with Captain Roland, a not particularly handsome woman Rankin cannot fathom Laurence's attraction to, and they keep in contact. No information from this correspondence reaches Rankin, but he desperately wants it.

What does Laurence write to his lover? Are they love letters? Had Laurence wanted to marry her, or might he still want to? Rankin does not see why Laurence would want to marry her: it's impractical for an aviator to marry at the best of times, and there's nothing to be gained from an alliance with a woman whose most valuable possession is her dragon, for which she already has an heir. Rankin hates her anyway.

There is even less for him to do once the dragons start falling sick. Nearly every aviator in the Corp is cooling their heels on the ground while the dragons cannot fly, and they snatch at any task no matter how small to keep themselves busy. The Navy are somehow less equipped than ever to handle the weakening of the borders, and it becomes increasingly obvious that they will not be able to hold the Channel for long. It's only a matter of time, now, before Bonaparte realizes just how defenseless they are.

Then Laurence comes swooping in with a fire-breathing dragonet and a company of twenty feral dragons from the Himalayas, all of whom are healthy and stand ready to defend England.

The ferals were brought by some Chinaman whose name Rankin doesn't bother to remember as he's trying to find a way to get to Edinburgh, to where Laurence has been called to receive his orders, as quickly as possible. Rankin doesn't give him much thought; he's planning what he will do when he sees Laurence for the first time in two years. The time has not cooled his anger, and he has been grounded so long that no one would bat an eye to find him dueling. He will demand satisfaction from Laurence, demand that he answer for the insults he dealt before the Battle of Dover. He tries to tell himself this is about his honor, and not about seeing Laurence again, and he thinks that this might be the last time he bothers to lie to himself this way.

He has to give the Chinaman more thought when he reaches Edinburgh however, if only because he's all anyone in the Corp is talking about. Wizardry, they call it, charming twenty ferals out of the mountains to defend the border, and in exchange for nothing more than being fed. Rankin couldn't care less about his so-called wizardry, but he's more interested in  _why_ people are saying he performed such magic. Laurence, apparently, some strange loyalty to Laurence that caused a man formerly indifferent to Britain to perform a labor of Hercules in its interest. They all have their theories, whispered behind their hands with uncommon discretion for the Corp, about the nature of the relationship between Laurence and the Chinaman.

Half the Corp thinks they're lovers. The other half is  _sure_ they're lovers.

Rankin leaves Edinburgh without even trying to see Laurence.

Even with the ferals, who all need crews and acting Captains even if they aren't really of the Corp, there's still nothing for him to do that won't be immediately assigned to other aviators. As a result of this he's free to go to Dover, rent a set of rooms near the docks for far more than their worth, and observe the sailors as they come in and out of the harbor. He's thought about this before, but he's never been desperate enough to actually  _do_  it.

Rankin chooses the first one based solely on his looks. He's tall and blond with just the right build, and he has Laurence's nose even if his eyes are muddy brown instead of sky blue. He's never done this with a man, but his sailor doesn't seem to mind; he talks Rankin through having his mouth used for the first time, holds him down with a strong arm braced on his back as he works Rankin open so long and so thoroughly that he's begging by the time the man takes him. It's good, it  _is_ good, but it's not Laurence, and Laurence is what Rankin wants. The only thing that reminded him of Laurence at all was the way the man overpowered him. He bears that in mind as he looks for the next one.

Eventually he learns how to ask for what he wants. He wants to be manhandled. He wants to be held down. He wants to be thrown around like a rag doll, used roughly for their pleasure without a thought to his own. That's how Laurence would do it, he thinks, because Laurence hates him. Laurence would never touch him, not even to give himself pleasure, unless he was also causing Rankin pain. Laurence would knock him around. Laurence would force him into the position he wants and then hold him there, helpless to resist. Laurence would make it hurt.

Rankin wants it to hurt.

A string of them come and go, some Navy and some merchants but all of them sailors, hardened into walls of muscle by life at sea and perfectly ready to pull his hair taut if it means getting to thrust into a warm and willing mouth. They use him, and he uses them, and he tries to lose himself in the illusion but none of them are quite  _right_. None of them are as brutal as he wants them to be, during the act or before it, and he's always left feeling overly sensitive, his skin begging for a touch that leaves behind a bruise like a brand of ownership. Some come closer than others, but in the end it's never enough. That doesn't stop him coming back for more though, more sailors with strong arms and broad shoulders and long golden hair.

One in particular stands out in his mind.

This one doesn't resemble Laurence any better than the others; he's tall and broad-shouldered, yes, but his hair is just barely blond and his face is no comparison at all. Rankin doesn't need to look at his face though, just needs to tangle his fingers in that soft hair, just the right length, and close his eyes. He lets himself be pushed against the door of his rented room by strong arms, pinned by a solid chest and groped by callous hands.

"Be rough with me," he whispers between frenzied kisses, his usual instruction for these encounters.

"How rough?" comes the answer, and he's struck again by the reason he chose this one: that deep, resonant voice, his accent clear and easy to understand but with just a hint of aristocratic upbringing. Just like Laurence's _._

None of them had ever asked that question though, just thrown him into walls a little harder and thought that was enough, and for a moment Rankin doesn't know how to answer him. "Hit me," he suggests at last.

The man does. He pulls back and, making his swing wide, leaving Rankin plenty of time to get away, lands a glancing blow on Rankin's jaw. It leaves him reeling, struggling to keep his feet, but the next thing he knows he's being gripped by the shoulders and held still for a knee to sink into his stomach. He coughs, the wind knocked out of him, and he doesn't get a chance to regain his breath as another blow lands squarely on his chest. He falls to his knees, gasping and trying not to retch, and then he's being gripped by the hair and dragged over to the bed, where his face is slammed into a corner of the foot board.

He tastes blood, spots dancing before his eyes, and he's caught between panic, because this is not what he asked for and he's quite lost control of the situation, and not wanting it to  _stop_  because this is the best it's ever been. His body aches all over and he's thrumming with it; it's so close to perfect, so close to what he'd imagined. So close to what he thought Laurence would have liked to do to him.

The grip on his hair hasn't loosening, and he prefers it that way. It's oddly grounding as he's hauled back to his knees, his vision clearing as he sees that he's been brought level with the other man's groin.

"Do you deserve this?" the man asks, in that perfect almost-Laurence voice. "Being roughed up? Do you deserve the pain?"

Rankin makes some sound that must have been in the affirmative, because the man's trousers are being undone to reveal a long and very hard member. He barely has time to open his mouth before it's being forced past his lips, the hand in his hair holding him in place. He hardly gets the chance to suck, hardly has the presence of mind to do so, as he's used violently for another man's pleasure.

"Do you deserve this too, naughty boy?" the man continues, his tone mocking and so deliciously cruel. "Being used like this?"

Rankin hums around the flesh in his throat, eyes glazed over. He's completely overpowered, he couldn't move if he wanted to, and that thought has him swallowing convulsively, eliciting a growl from the one holding him. He almost wants to test that grip, see how far the man would go to hold him still, but he's afraid that it will stop if he tries to get away so he just lets himself be pushed and pulled like an especially accommodating rag doll.

"Does someone need to stop your smart mouth?" the voice above him is breaking with pleasure now, and stutters when he groans, knowing he can feel the sound more than hear it.

His trousers are getting uncomfortably tight, but as he reaches down to undo them he's suddenly being pulled off again by the hair.

He whines at the loss, and that earns him another smack across the face. Strong fingers grip his jaw, pressing into the place where a bruise is already forming from the first blow, and his face is forcibly angled upward. He keeps his eyes shut tight, not wanting to break the illusion, not wanting to see that this isn't Laurence doing this to him, and after a moment the man seems to accept this.

He presses two fingers to Rankin's lips and Rankin takes them eagerly, getting them wet and slick as he undoes his trousers and pushes them down. Before he can touch himself at all however, the fingers are removed and he's pulled up by the hair again, bent over the edge of the bed with his face pressed into the sheets. He's not quite the right height for this, and his knees are bent awkwardly, his legs spread as far as they'll go for balance but still trapped by the cloth. The man pulls his trousers down further, until they reach the top of his boots; neither of them have undressed any further than this, his  _neckcloth_  is still in place for God's sake, but already he's being none too gently worked open, not so much prepared for the intrusion as pried apart to receive it.

"I think you deserve this too," the man growls next to his ear, and Rankin gasps out little breathy sounds as those thick fingers move in and out of him in a parody of the act their owner is about to perform.

He's caught between pleasure and pain, the shock and the loss of control pushing his arousal higher until he can't wait, he has to reach down and take himself in hand. Before he can even touch himself however, both his wrists are caught and pinned to the bed.

"I  _know_  you don't deserve that," the man growls into his ear, and drives inside with one swift thrust that makes Rankin keen much too loudly for where they are.

Rankin whimpers fearfully, struggling, because it's too good, and it's never been this good, and he can't imagine it being  _this good_  and not being able to  _finish_. He writhes, but those thick seafaring arms hold him down like iron bars. He tries to say . . . something, but his tongue is thick and stupid in his mouth, his mind too fogged with lust to find the words. He ruts desperately against the edge of the bed, but the man gives a little snarl and jerks his hips back, leaving him with nothing but empty air for stimulation.

This isn't how these encounters work, it isn't suppose to be like this, but in its own way it's oddly fitting. Laurence  _wouldn't_  want to give him that, would never want to give Rankin any pleasure at all, and with that thought suddenly he's spilling himself onto the sheets, not a finger laid on him.

When he regains his senses he's still being had, but now the man is whispering a steady stream of filth into his ears, calling him a whore and a sodomite and a number of other, less savory things. This isn't right though, those aren't words Laurence would use, so he forces his mind back to the present.

"Stop," he croaks, and the man falls silent and pauses his movement until Rankin elaborates. "That way you're talking, it isn't . . . he wouldn't . . ."

"Oh love, I am sorry," the man croons, kissing his ear, and then he's cooing a litany of affectionate nonsense, long strings of "so sweet Darling, taking it so well" and "so glad I found you, such a dear."

This is wrong too, and Rankin should say something, make him stop his cooing, because that's something Laurence would never do either. Laurence would never say those words, not to Rankin, but he  _wants_  them, wants Laurence to whisper endearments into his ears like he's something precious, something dear. He wants the way Laurence says "my dear" to his dragon, wants it for himself, and then the man currently having him is saying it, saying "yes, my dear, like that" in a voice so close to Laurence's, and that's enough to make him spend all over again.

"Was that what you wanted?" the man asks, when it's all over and he's fixing his clothes, Rankin lying alone on the bed.

He doesn't know what to say. He wants so many things, wants more of them now, and more desperately than ever. He wonders if what he wants even exists, and if someone else has it. He wonders if, even now, that damned Chinaman is being held in a bruising grip by those hands Rankin wants so badly. He wonders if that mongrel is being called "my dear" in the voice Rankin craves. He wonders what he'd do, to take that vagabond's place.

"No," he says coldly, "it wasn't."

At some point his wallowing in debauchery is interrupted by the news that Captain William Laurence has committed High Treason. He has carried aid and comfort to the French, and has freely admitted to the act at his court martial. He has been convicted and sentenced to death.

_Oh love,_  Rankin thinks,  _what have you done?_

**Author's Note:**

> I promise not every story in this series will be villains pining over Laurence. Some of them will be heroes pining over Laurence! Next up is Tharkay, during the carriage scene from Victory of Eagles, then maybe back to Napoleon while we're on the subject of the invasion.


End file.
